Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
Lorenzo
A t the peal of the first bell of the afternoon, one of the imperial guards calls the Darium court out of our secondary palace for the Goric pledging ceremony. As I leave my guest room, dread weighs on my body like a cloak of lead.
I emerge into the front courtyard where the carriages are waiting. Neven stands with his family farther down by the royal palace entrance, a sour cast on his face. A sharper spike of apprehension courses through my veins.
Raul, Bastien, and I have all tried to approach him since Aurelia passed on word that he seemed particularly out of sorts. Our younger foster brother has rebuffed us at every turn. It’s difficult to find space for a private conversation in the middle of a cross-country journey when one party is avoiding it.
He’ll still be living in the smaller imperial palace while the court is in residence. Marclinus doesn’t let any of us too far off our leashes. We should get a chance to corner him and insist on a discussion in the next few days.
But looking at him, knowing how he spoke to Aurelia, I have trouble believing a single talk is going to fix everything. And it might not come in time.
This journey’s greatest trial to his patience is upon us right now.
As I meander toward the line of carriages more slowly than I need to, I watch Neven’s progress. The moment he glances in my direction, I jerk my hand at my side for his attention and form a hasty signed message. We’re together. Stay strong.
Neven simply frowns and looks away without a response.
Raul and Bastien have been assigned to different carriages, but when we exchange glances, I can tell they’ve followed the exchange. Bastien’s expression has turned solemn but determined. Raul grimaces and tips his head as if to acknowledge my effort.
We are all together, keeping an eye on him. I just don’t know if it’ll be enough.
As the carriage rattles across the cobblestone streets toward the square our emperor picked for the pledging ceremony, the memory of Pavel’s death repeats in my head. The thud of his footsteps onto the execution platform. The hiss of the axe swing.
Could I have saved him from his awful end if I’d paid more attention to his moods rather than getting caught up in my own? Was there anything that could have stopped him from hurling a blast of fiery magic at Emperor Tarquin?
How can we make sure his little brother doesn’t meet the same dire fate?
We disembark in the huge city square with an ominous thunder of boots against marble tiles. Everything in the capital city of Andov seems to be stone—the roads, the buildings lining the square, the fountain with its towering statue of Creaden poised in the center.
It’s not surprising, given the mountain range that looms in the distance, which stretches across the entire eastern half of the country. Goric has a reputation for fine stonework. But the hard gray surfaces all around me send a chill over my skin even though we’ve left the northern territories far behind.
While the crowd swarms as close to the ceremony platform as the soldiers will allow, I stand with the Darium court. Raul slips over to the Gorician side briefly, but when he tries to sidle up to our younger foster brother, Neven pushes him away.
Raul’s jaw sets, but he can hardly pick a fight in front of the entire city. He ambles back to our side, his stride casual but his shoulders tensed.
There aren’t any surprises to the actual pledges of loyalty after seeing them so many times before. All of Neven’s family kneels before Marclinus—Linus, I assume—and Aurelia, committing to serve him and the child in her now prominent belly while translators echo their words to the commoners who won’t have much grasp of Darium.
When the pledging is finished, Linus gazes out over the crowd with a smirk that sets all my nerves jangling. “Good people of Goric, I would like to give all of you a chance to prove how devoted your country is to the empire!” He nods to the fountain in their midst. “As you once honored Creaden, why should you not also honor your emperor?”
I catch puzzled expressions in the crowd as they stir, waiting for him to explain.
Marclinus lifts his head higher. “I hear that when people first settled on these lands many centuries ago, they built their homes with wood. But a horrible fire swept in just before winter and burned away their settlements and the nearby forests. As they despaired, Creaden came among them and reminded their mayor that a true leader stops at nothing for his people. They had the means to build shelters in the materials of their history.”
He sweeps his hand toward an immense stone arch to the right of the square. “Beyond those gates lies your city’s largest cemetery. Let me see what you can build for our future from the bones of your past! I expect a house I can stand up in the middle of without touching the walls, solidly enough constructed that a lit candle will not waver inside it. If the building skills of Goricians haven’t been exaggerated, that should be no trouble.”
My gut lurches with a surge of nausea. He’s asking them to do what ?
I have a vague memory of that fable of Creaden, of the first Goricians creating homes out of bone to outlast the winter before they could make the trek to the mountains for stone. Who knows if that was even true rather than a metaphorical tale? And even if it was, for Marclinus to expect these people to disturb their dead just to stoke his ego…
I swallow thickly. It’s horrible, but it’s not actually unbelievable, given everything else he’s done.
All the same, I spot a few lips curled in distaste among the Darium nobles around me—more of an adverse reaction than they’ve showed to his previous challenges. They might think themselves better than any Gorician, but the gruesome nature of Linus’s demand unsettles them.
It’d be easier to take that as a victory if not for the people who still have to carry out the demand.
Queen Dafina’s pale face has turned outright sallow. She looks out over her citizens, who are stirring and murmuring restlessly. No one yet has moved toward the cemetery gates.
Marclinus shouldn’t blame them for balking, but no doubt he will.
The queen opens her mouth—but her son pushes forward first.
Neven steps into view by the front of the platform, his hands balled into fists and his brown eyes flashing with fury. “No. That’s too much.”
My stomach plummets to my feet. Gods help us, he’s really doing this.
Marclinus eyes the young prince with an arch of his brow. “I think the only one who gets to decide what’s a reasonable request is your emperor. Or do you think your people are so faithless they’d fail in this simple test?”
Neven’s expression hardens even more. “I think you’re a pathetic excuse for an emperor who only cares about himself, not anyone you’re supposed to be ruling over. And I think you’re a coward who’s so scared of losing power you have to bully people into doing awful things.”
He hasn’t moved any closer to Marclinus, but he lifts his arms in front of his chest—and a metallic gleam catches my eye in the sleeve of his formal jacket.
He’s hidden a knife in his sleeve. Does he really think he can get past the guards fast enough to stab Marclinus?
Or has he spiraled so far into anger he doesn’t care what his chances are?
The emperor’s mouth pulls into a sneer. “Big words from a little boy. What would you know about ruling or power?”
Neven is only a few paces away from him, awfully close to Marclinus’s guards. But I can’t stand back and do nothing.
I pitch my gift toward my foster brother with as tight a focus as I can manage, praying that none of the guards sense my magic.
“Neven, don’t do it. Remember how you felt when you heard what happened to Pavel? That’ll be how all these people watching will feel if they have to see their last prince murdered. It’ll break their spirit, not help them. If you want them to stand up to him one day, you need to keep standing too.”
Neven’s jaw works, the only sign that he might be processing what I said. The queen steps in to grip his shoulder. “Forgive my son. He was only startled, and?—”
Neven yanks away from her. “I know my people deserve a better emperor than you!” he snaps at Marclinus, and lunges.
My heart stops, but no blade flashes in his hand. He only snatches at Marclinus’s ceremonial jacket empty-handed, as if he means to hold the emperor there while he yells into his face.
Of course, he doesn’t accomplish even that much. His groping hand smacks into a barrier of magic more than a foot away from Marclinus’s form.
With a volley of yells, Marclinus’s personal guards and a couple of other nearby soldiers leap at the prince. One punches him in the nose. Another knocks his legs out from under them.
Neven thrashes about, but another wallop of magic freezes him in place. If he considered using his gift, he can’t now.
In a matter of seconds, the soldiers are battering him from all sides with feet and fists. His mother watches in a rigid stance, her lips pressed flat.
Marclinus gazes down at his young foster brother with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
He isn’t ordering the kid dead, but if he realizes Neven was concealing a weapon—if any of the soldiers discover it?—
My pulse stutters, and my gaze darts to the woman beside him. “Aurelia, Neven has a knife hidden in his left sleeve. If there’s any way you can intervene so the guards don’t find it…”
Aurelia’s expression firms, but she can hardly dive into the middle of the beating, especially in her current unwieldy state.
The guards deliver several more vicious blows. The last smacks Neven’s head into the platform’s boards hard enough that his eyelids flutter shut.
His attackers straighten up over the slumped, bleeding prince, looking to their emperor for additional orders.
“Does he still live?” Aurelia manages to make the question sound more like one of logistics than deep concern.
She darts forward as gracefully as she can manage and kneels next to Neven, taking his wrist. As she makes a show of checking his pulse, her cloak falls across his forearm. When she pulls back, her fingers curl at her side in a silent message. Done .
I relax just slightly. She’s removed the evidence that Neven hoped the confrontation might turn into an actual imperial assassination.
She looks at Marclinus. “He’s alive, only unconscious. We’d best have him brought to the palace medics so he’s ready for whatever additional punishment you have in mind.”
I could almost laugh despite my horror at the situation. She’s truly incredible, making it sound as if it’s in Marclinus’s own selfish interests to keep the prince alive.
I hope his parents understand the importance of what she just did. Without those words, I wouldn’t have put it past Marclinus to order Neven’s immediate execution regardless of the rest.
He still might. The emperor cocks his head in consideration and then grins. “Right you are, wife.” He snaps his fingers at the soldiers to gather up Neven’s slack body and carry it away.
My next breath spills out of me in a rush. I wish Neven hadn’t given in to his anger at all, but we managed to avert the worst catastrophe.
For him, at least. My gaze darts back to the rest of the Gorician royal family.
Queen Dafina speaks up in a strained voice. “I’m grateful for our emperor’s mercy. Let us honor His Imperial Majesty by granting his one request.”
When the city folk continue to hesitate, Marclinus makes a brisk gesture. Several soldiers close in around the queen, king, and crown princess. None draw their swords, but the ominous implications are clear.
If the citizens’ loyalty to their emperor isn’t strong enough, it’s their royal family who’ll take the blame.
The first few civilians push open the cemetery gates. More soldiers—the Darium forces who were already stationed here—prod the crowd onward.
There might have been more commotion if the city folk hadn’t just seen a demonstration of how brutal those soldiers can be. As it is, several dozen more commoners hustle into the graveyard to start digging.
I have no idea if Neven realized this, but the beating he took might have saved the lives of more than one of his people.
Another group of soldiers is clearing an area of the square between the cemetery wall and our platform so the macabre building can be constructed under Marclinus’s watchful eyes. A few city folk are already hurrying over with dirt from the graveyard to pack against the stone tiles in a smooth foundation.
Even if their lives have been spared, it’s a vile task that’s being asked of these people. I don’t feel right simply standing here like I’ve had to through so much else.
I can’t offer a lot, but if I can ease the horror of the situation at least a little, that’s worth something.
I sign a hasty message to Raul. He grimaces but steps closer to Marclinus with a brash air. “Your Imperial Majesty, why shouldn’t our prince of Rione add to the grandeur of the event with a few songs? I think he brought his lyre in his carriage.”
Marclinus chuckles. “What an inspired idea! Let’s get Prince Lorenzo his instrument so he can give us all a worthy performance.”
One of the pages hovering in the background dashes off and returns with my lyre. I move to the corner of the stage closest to the cemetery and bring my hand to the strings.
Alongside the tune that spills from my fingers, I extend my gift over the square and the graveyard beyond. It adds a divine resonance to the melody, sweetening every note.
For Marclinus’s approval, I use the base of one of the imperial celebratory marches, an ode to victory. But here and there, more and more as I settle into the song, I adjust the melody to incorporate a funerary air.
We might be honoring the emperor, but we can honor the dead and the sacrifice being made at the same time.
As I play on, I think I see a little more vigor in the city folk who are constructing their house of bones. The royal family has joined the effort, cradling the remains of those long deceased as they carry them through the gate without concern for the dirt smearing their fine clothes.
The lumpy, yellow-white walls rise higher. Some of the civilians press more soil into the gaps between the bones to increase their chances of meeting Marclinus’s final condition. Crates and stepladders come out so they can construct the sloping roof.
I play on, even as an ache starts to spear through my skull and weariness shivers through my bones. I feel as if I’m bearing witness as much as honoring the task, and both acts feel equally important.
Finally, the structure stands in its grisly glory in the cleared part of the square. Marclinus strides over, takes a candle from a footman, and pulls the door on its makeshift hinges closed behind him.
I let my instrument fall silent. The crowd seems to hold their collective breaths.
We don’t actually know what punishment the emperor will inflict on the people of Goric if he judges that they failed.
When I glance over at my other foster brothers, Bastien’s face is set with concentration. Anyone else might think he’s simply tense over the test’s outcome, but my heart lifts.
He’ll be using his gift—carefully, to avoid Marclinus’s guards, but a man who can blow in rain clouds from a hundred miles away can hold the air around a city square still for a few minutes.
Marclinus emerges grinning and holding his lit candle aloft. “Very good, people of Goric! You do our empire proud!”
He blows out the candle and turns back toward the platform. I only have a second to brace at the unsettling glint in his eye before his grin stretches wider. “Now it’s time for my wife to honor us all as well.”